Ginny's Horcrux
by LilyChilling
Summary: The boy who broke her heart was not the boy who lived in it-not the Boy Who Lived. Not the Boy She Loved. But Tom Riddle's betrayal did not just break Ginny's heart-it rent her soul apart as well, leaving her with her own Horcrux-and the human sacrifice it claimed was Ginny's innocence. She had given him everything, and now she would take it all back.


**Disclaimer? Disclaimer.**

* * *

 **Ginny's Horcrux**

The boy who broke her heart was not the boy who lived in it—not the Boy Who Lived.

Not the Boy She Loved.

Not in _that_ sense, anyway.

In another sense, Ginny supposed (it was hard to be certain now with this screaming thing sitting inside her chest), she _had_ loved Tom.

Ginny had loved Harry in so many ways.

At first, she loved him the way she loved her bedtime stories. He _was_ a story then, a fairy-tale hero that had defeated the evil and saved the wizarding world.

When Harry turned out to be very real, and so very close at King's Cross, and so very adorable, she loved him the way a ten-year-old girl loves that _perfect_ , older boy.

When he saved her from Tom in the Chamber, she loved him the way you love someone when you owe them your life.

As they grew side by side, she loved him the way a teenage girl loves her first _real_ crush, then the way a girl loves her older brother, a good, loyal friend, and an idol, a person whose heart is in such a right place that you want to be better, braver, stronger, like him.

She loved Harry the way you love someone you never want to stop kissing, too, of course—that had never really gone away.

Ginny would always love Harry the way a girl loves the one she would die for, and kill for, in a heartbeat.

Kill _Tom_ in a heartbeat.

She would kill Tom in a heartbeat. Would it beat, though, that heart of hers, if she met Tom again?

Ginny had _loved_ Tom—yes, now she was certain.

She had loved Tom the way an invisible, insecure eleven-year-old girl unnoticed by her first crush loves a beautiful older boy who tells her that _she's_ beautiful.

At first.

When he listened to her, really listened to her, when he always was there for her, when he understood her from a half-finished sentence sinking into the page, she loved him the way you love a _soul_ mate.

When he soaked up her darkest secrets, her shame, her fears and nightmares, when he took them away, she loved him the way a child loves the infallible grown protector who would hold your hand and look with you under your bed and inside your wardrobe, and not a single monster would touch you as long as he's with you.

She loved him the way you love someone who loves you first, who is so devoted to you there is nothing you could do to repel him; he would be on your side whatever you did—you could _kill_ , and he still wouldn't judge, wouldn't leave you.

When she thought she _had_ killed, those birds, that she was trying to kill her friends, that she was becoming a monster herself, she was going insane—she loved Tom more desperately than ever then, the way you love the only one you can trust, the only one who can help, the only one who exists.

When she started suspecting it wasn't her _right_ shoulder he sat on, it wasn't salvation prayers he whispered into her ear, she got rid of him—and she still loved him, the way you love someone who's changed, but you still cling to him, search his eyes for a glimpse of the other one, the one you had _really_ loved—he must be still there, he can't be gone, but he is, and you love the new him with a ghost of that true love, but it _is_ love still.

At some point, Ginny was certain now, as the thing in her chest Crucioed, Crucioed, Crucioed her from the inside, she had loved Tom as though he were everything—he _had_ been everything but he was _gone_ , she would have given _everything_ to bring him _back_ , she _had_ given _everything_ —

She only stopped loving Tom after he stopped her heart.

Not right away—when her heart started again, she loved him for a few last minutes while she still hoped he might have loved her a little bit, and then it broke, and she loved him no more.

Tom broke her heart, and she had nothing left.

She had given him _everything_.

She had given Tom her childhood, her innocence, her magic, her life. Ginny would like to believe that he had given her _nothing_ , that he just took, took, took, used, and drained, and hollowed, and emptied, but that wouldn't be true.

There _had_ been a time when he had given her everything she needed, everything she didn't need, too. For every thing she had given him, he had given back.

For her secrets, his. ( _Hiss_.)

For her life, his. ( _Hiss_.)

For her soul, his. ( _Hiss_.)

For her magic, his. ( _Hiss_.)

For her childhood, truth. For her innocence, power. For all her light, all his darkness, all his demons, all of his monstrous self. ( _Crucio_ , _Crucio_ , _Crucio_.)

It had been real then. He had meant it then.

Later, he had taken it all back, of course.

When Harry—God, not him, not here, not _Harry_ —destroyed the piece of Tom's soul, when Ginny finally opened her eyes ( _don't open your eyes_ , Tom hissed) and saw the yellow basilisk eyes of the truth staring back at her—Tom, her Tom, had wanted her _dead_ , had _never_ wanted her any other way, had thought _nothing_ of her—he, being already dead, still took it all back, took much, much more than he'd given her.

Long summer days, curled up in her bed the way she had been on the floor of his Chamber, clutching her chest, Ginny wished the thing inside it ( _Crucio_ , _Crucio_ , _Crucio_ ) away. Every trace of her Tom—the memory of that other, real Tom she'd never known—had gone from her mind, but her own memories of that memory kept taking from her. He kept taking, and taking, and taking—the last shreds of her confidence (" _boring, stupid, annoying little brat"_ ), the last shreds of her will to live (" _pitiful, silly, she won't wake"_ ), the last shreds of her hope that one day, one day, Harry would forgive her, Harry would— (" _She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods."_ )

The broken heart, she was told, would heal, as they do. The sharp, Unforgivable pain in her chest would dull. But days went by, endless and empty, as if she were stuck in the torn hole of his diary, and the pain sat there, as strong as the day her Tom had died, hurting and hurting and hurting, and she would give anything to make it stop if she still had something left to give.

Ginny knew this sharp pain all too well. She had felt it before—not this long—because _Tom_ had felt it once, and once, when he used to give her everything, he had given her that pain, too. She knew what it was.

When Tom had killed a girl (" _Myrtle was an accident_ — _couldn't allow her to have died in vain_ "—she had still loved him when he'd told her—stupid, foolish, how could she have been so—?), the deed had split his soul in two. The broken-off shard had been screaming and cutting and—Ginny dug her nails into the skin of her chest—he had ripped it out and locked it inside his diary—a Horcrux ( _it's gone now, he's gone now, Harry's safe_ ).

 _Crucio, Crucio, Crucio_ , get this thing _out_.

When Tom had betrayed her, the truth of it, the _lies_ of what she had thought they had, hadn't just broken her heart—it had rent her soul apart, too.

On the day before she was to return to Hogwarts, Ginny groped around for her wand she hadn't used in three months, writhing in pain, but too exhausted, too _spent_ to cry. She brought the wand to her chest, pressing the tip in so deep it drew blood, and she whispered the dark words Tom had spoken, and she pulled and she pulled and she pulled, and she screamed the way Tom had screamed, and then it was finally over,

and she breathed,

and she breathed,

and she breathed.

She locked the piece of her soul that Tom had poisoned and then broken off inside an old, tired Snitch. Her memories of him, her diary of what had been—her own Horcrux. With it, gone was the pain, and gone was her Tom.

Ginny fought, Ginny burned, Ginny lived on.

She still loved Harry with her mended heart and what was left of her soul. Although the closer he let her get to him, the louder that removed part of her soul was calling out to her, to him _,_ to _Harry_. It scared her, and she kept the thing buried deep in her trunk. It wasn't right—there was no place for anything but Tom in that dark shred of her soul, but Ginny had to admit there was something in Harry that had always reminded her of the evil he had defeated.

Still, she ignored the call; she got her life back, her fire, her bravery, her strength. She broke dark-haired boys' hearts and scored goals and fired hexes, and she fought and she burned.

(She pretended the hollow in her chest where the piece of her soul had been, where her innocence had been, where her Tom had been, wasn't there.)

Tom returned yet again, that red-eyed Tom who called himself by a different name, but if her Horcrux had something to say about that, Ginny wouldn't know—she shut it out, and when the Dark Lord came back, she felt nothing the rest of the world didn't feel.

She clung to Harry the way she clung to all the light and hope that had been taken away from her, but those she had clawed back as well. Yet she understood him when he said he saw no other way but to leave her, to go and fight Tom again, search for Horcruxes her Tom hadn't known of. But when he left—Harry left—Ginny felt freer, and the thing in her trunk finally quieted down.

She was returning from her secret trip to Hogsmeade when—

a drunk voice, a Death Eater mask, a whistle, an insult—

a hate-fueled retort, an impulsive hex—

a flash of green light, a scream, pain, darkness.

She woke and stared at the black, starry, Dark Mark-free sky. They had left her where she had fallen, hadn't pulled off her hood, hadn't even taken her wand.

Hadn't made sure the firewhisky-induced mistake their Lord would have surely punished them for—" _spill_ _not a drop of pure, even traitorous (_ hypocrite! _) blood_ "—wouldn't be found. Hadn't made sure she was not still alive.

Still alive.

For a long time, as she lay there, Ginny felt nothing but grief. Alive, still.

But something had died.

The Horcrux, she thought.

Tom, she thought.

Her first thought should have been Harry, not Tom.

She wasn't supposed to be thinking of Tom.

Harry was out there, trying to defeat Tom.

 _No, not_ that _Tom_ , something thrummed in her chest. _Not_ your _Tom._

She _wasn't_ supposed to be thinking of _her_ Tom.

Ginny clawed at her chest; she ripped the robes and dragged her nails through the skin.

A different piece of her soul. The sharp one. The poisoned. The betrayed, the abandoned, the broken—

She, Ginny, the Ginny who had fought and burned, had been killed. The part that had survived Tom's betrayal was gone now, and the part he had poisoned was keeping her alive.

He hadn't taken it _all_ back after all. He had still left her his last gift.

Her Tom had given her this. This was everything, everything she needed. Everything she needed to take the rest of it back.

It all came back. Not the pain.

Tom.

He had so hated that name, but to Ginny, once more it sounded like the most powerful spell, her favorite word in the world, and she whispered it, breathed it, hissed it.

 _Tom_.

It was so familiar, so safe, so soothing—yes, it hurt, but it hurt like coming home, a home you had thought was long gone, only to find it still standing.

It hurt like coming _home_.

Ginny clawed and clawed at her chest. She remembered all the secrets he'd told her, all the praise he had given her, all the comfort he'd offered. She remembered all the ways she had loved him.

She remembered that her Tom was dead.

She remembered the hollow was still in her chest. She needed to fill it. She needed to fill it with him.

Ginny got up and returned to the castle.

She went to the library and sat at the table where he had studied. She stroked the surface and rested her cheek against it.

She went to the Restricted Section, cursing the Death Eater scum at the threshold into oblivion on her way in, and she pressed the books he had read so many times to her chest.

She went to the Great Hall and slipped into the seat that had been his, ignoring the few early-bird Slytherins staring at her. She would have cursed them into oblivion, too, but they didn't say anything as she sipped her pumpkin juice, her hand clutching the wand never leaving her bloodied chest.

She went to the Room of Requirement and sank into the chair by the fireside where he had lounged when he'd tortured his minions with lazy flicks of his wand. She remembered every curse he had used; she tasted them on the tip of her tongue.

Not enough.

She needed more of him.

She went to Myrtle's bathroom where he had made his first—no, his _only_ —Horcrux. Where his Horcrux had later made hers.

She ran her fingers over the silver snake on the sink. The snake writhed and hissed at her touch.

" _Her skeleton_ ," Ginny hissed back, " _would lie in the Chamber forever. Open._ "

It did.

She stood in the Chamber where her heart had been broken. She thought about the dark-haired boy. Her Tom. She clawed and clawed at her bleeding chest.

Not enough.

She kneeled beside the skeleton of Slytherin's monster half-buried in the dust. She caressed the bones. She felt sorry for it. She talked to it softly, the words a sweet hiss on her tongue; she mourned.

 _"Your skeleton, left to lie in the Chamber forever. Such a magnificent thing you were. Such a beautiful beast. It wasn't your fault you had been made a monster."_

She mourned it and mourned herself and she told it how she wished she could speak with her Tom, how he'd find a way to bring the basilisk back.

Even his Chamber of Secrets wasn't enough.

But the Chamber of Secrets held more than one, of course. Salazar Slytherin's statue listened to the fiery girl's wishes. A Pureblood, a Parselmouth, and a shattered soul that had been soaked in the darkness of his own blood. He would humor her.

Ginny's hand stroking the skeleton met sudden emptiness. She heard the mouth of the statue behind her grate open. She felt the floor and the walls shudder as something slithered out of that mouth. She opened her eyes ( _don't open your eyes_ , reminded her Tom in a hiss)—and she closed them.

The basilisk was alive. Wasn't blind. She should be scared, she thought, but she was too happy for the damned thing, and she told it so as she felt it draw closer and wrap its tail around her.

Ginny petted it, purred in its tongue, feeling the hollow in her chest to finally begin to un-blossom.

 _"Such a magnificent thing you are,"_ Ginny nearly cooed. " _Such a glorious monster. Talk to me, talk to me, talk to me."_

But Ginny carried only the memories Tom had given her, not the actual piece of his soul. The basilisk wouldn't _talk_ to her. It would _kill_ her, because,

 _"_ _The basilisk only listens to the Heir of Slytherin."_

She breathed out, waiting for the beast to tighten, to strike, to slash, but then she realized those last hissed words had not been hers.

Ginny knew that voice. Ginny felt almost whole again. Not enough, but close, _just give me a little more._

 _"_ _Leave"_ —to the serpent.

The coils around her chest unfurled, and the mouth of the statue swallowed her basilisk.

" _Open your eyes_ "—to her.

Ginny did.

"Hello, Tom."

Her Tom watched her, eyes wild, wand aimed at her. Ginny did not raise hers. That brilliant, beautiful, beautiful boy. He looked so real—so angry—so alive. _No_ , she thought, nails digging into her chest, not _her_ Tom. Her Tom was _dead_. Stabbed with the magnificent basilisk's fang. This was that other Tom. Still, she could not find it in her to shiver or gasp at the wrath in his gaze. She felt herself drawn to him as if he were the missing, murdered piece of her soul, but she remained where she was, where the basilisk's bones should have been.

He tried to pry open her mind, and Ginny smirked to herself, showing him a flash of green light, over and over, and over. He wouldn't want to watch the Killing Curse flung toward him too long, but neither could he bring down the walls he had helped her build.

Tom retracted his mental assault, and circled her, scowling, with his wand arm outstretched, asking a question each time he came to meet her unwavering eyes.

"Who are you?"

"I don't know, Tom," she replied honestly. "I'll have to figure it out, again."

 _Will you help me, again? Will you steer me away from the truth, again?_

A wave of annoyance. "How do you know my name?"

 _I know your name like the roof of my mouth, like the back of my teeth. I know what your name feels like when I claw it out of my chest through my skin and my ribs._

"From a memory."

Confusion. "I don't remember you."

"Why would you? I was a child when I met you." ( _Stupid, annoying, whiny_ —)

"How did you get into the Chamber?"

A shrug. "I asked it to open."

"How come you speak Parseltongue?"

"A friend taught me."

"Parseltongue can't be taught." Each word like a whip on her back. Contempt, irritation, and still he hadn't cursed her.

Ginny shrugged again. _"He taught me anyway_."

Hesitation. "Who was he?"

"Slytherin's heir."

She could feel his ire rolling over her back, and _still_ he hadn't cursed her. Ginny smirked again and didn't bother to hide it when he faced her once more. _Give me more. Give it back. I need more._

" _I_ am the Heir of Slytherin. And I did not teach you."

Ginny thought for a time, then agreed. "No. No, it wasn't you."

He was silent then, too. Then, a casual "You were nice to the basilisk."

"I have grown to like it."

 _I have grown to miss it. Give it back._

"Why did you come here?"

 _To take it all back._ Ginny grimaced, scratching at her chest with her blood-covered nails. "I needed— _need_ to fill a void. I needed the Chamber to comfort me."

He was openly curious now. _More_. "You have been here before?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"When is now?"

He told her the date, unsurprised by the question. Ginny thought she should be more surprised at the answer, but perhaps this part of her soul could no longer feel things so naive as surprise.

Ginny looked back, contemplating the statue. At last, she replied. "Then it's been a very long time."

"You look young."

"A Horcrux," said Ginny.

Tom's eyes widened. She almost had him now, but this still was not enough, would not be enough—

Then she thought of the date again, and something occurred to her, and she sighed, feeling as though she were coming home.

" _You_ made a Horcrux?" He sounded as if he didn't believe her but really, really, really wanted to.

"No." Ginny smiled at the dying red gleam in his eyes, knowing she was about to summon it back. " _You_ made it for me."

He stopped circling. He stared. He itched. He craved. _More, more, more_. "I—? How—? One cannot make a Horcrux for somebody else. Tell me. Tell me now. _More_."

"I can't tell you. But I could show you instead. I could make one for you, if you let me."

The way this Tom looked at her as he lowered his wand—Ginny knew he would let her. He would feast on her secrets, her fears, her shame. He would give back. He would let her weave herself into his mind, he would let her lodge in his chest, and when she was done with him, he wouldn't be able to bear the pain of his splintered soul and he would claw the broken thing out.

Tom eyed her as though she were immortality incarnate. Ginny smiled.

"You know my name, but I still don't know yours."

" _Ginevra_ ," she said.

She had never liked her first name, but she supposed it wouldn't matter when, even after she shattered his heart from the inside, after she clawed her way out of his chest, her name would still be his favorite word in the world.

And when she was finished with this one, she would kill him in a heartbeat, and she would kill him, and kill him, and kill him, until he stopped coming back.

She wouldn't manage to do that alone, of course. She would steal _her_ Tom from him first—the Horcrux, the memory, the diary that had broken her heart and kept her alive and was yet unaware of what he would do to her, what he had done to her—what he would have done to her.

Ginny smiled and smiled and smiled. She would write to him. She and her Tom would be friends again.

She had not yet decided for how long it would be real, for how long she would mean it, for how long she would give, give, give, before she took it all back, before she took _everything_ back.

* * *

 **Hello, I've made six Horcruxes. Fear me. (No living souls other than my own were tortured or died (several times) in the process of said Horcruxes' creation.)**

 **Not inspired by anything real at all, especially not some treacherous dark-haired boys.**  
 **No, really, it isn't. I don't have a life.**  
 **(Please owl me back Tom come on.)**


End file.
